


Kintsugi Extras

by meaninglessblah



Series: Kintsugi [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Dom/Sub, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Pedophilia, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-24 11:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20705510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Set before the events ofKintsugi, when Tim is a child. One of his sessions with his psychologist, in which he discusses past non-consensual scenes and other abuse.Read the tags before you start. It's not fun, or particularly cathartic - just my way of working through a characterisation.





	Kintsugi Extras

He's twelve, and it's been a _ year_. Tim's in a new grade with a new teacher, in a brand new school and he doesn't understand why he's _ still _ being sent to see these damn shrinks. 

It's his fifth in about eleven months, if he's been keeping count. And if you include the one the cops had shackled him up with, that his father had swiftly parted ways with because who asks a child to recount the intimate details of their abuser's crimes in the guise of a therapy setting? 

He didn't understand at the time why his Dad didn't like Dr Crane, but he didn't like him either, so he doesn't complain. He doesn't like Dr Quinn either, but he still has to see her every Tuesday at seven. He's used to it by now. 

The leather couch bends under his weight when Tim tugs a knee up to hook his heel on the edge of the cushion. He doesn't want to be here, doesn't understand why none of the _ other _ kids have to talk to a therapist about their feelings. Doesn't understand why he's so special when special is a bad word. 

He doesn't hate Dr Quinn, not really. Most days they just sit and do his homework while they talk about his week at school. They mostly discuss whatever's on his mind at the time, chattering away for the allotted hour. The time before last, they'd talked about baseball tryouts, and how Tim was nervous about making it into junior league. 

He'd made it, because he's good at baseball. Dr Quinn had seemed quietly, confidently impressed when he'd come bounding into her clinic the next week. 

This session he's just as restless, but not so ecstatic. She surveys him over her neatly clasped hands and asks him, “How are you feeling, Tim?” 

He grunts a non-committal response that's neither positive nor negative. Just noise, because he hasn't decided how he feels yet. 

She takes that in stride, as she does most times. Her left hand lifts to slide the half plate of shortbread cookies in his direction. They're decorated in pastels of orange and yellow and brown. It's Thanksgiving in a week's time. Alfred has already started decorating. 

He doesn't reach for a cookie. 

“How was your week?” Dr Quinn amends instead, and Tim shrugs his shoulders petulantly. It's the sort of behaviour that his grandfather would clip him over the head for. Say something about him being disrespectful to his elders. Dr Quinn doesn't seem like the sort who'd do that. “We need to do some talking before you leave today; I'm not going to be able to see you next week because of the holidays. So we have some extra time today instead.” 

Tim hums an acknowledgement and shifts more comfortably onto the couch as he rests his chin atop his raised knee. 

Dr Quinn doesn't_ sigh_, but he can feel the sentiment in her posture. “We've talked about being non-verbal before,” she entreats slowly, calmly. “Remember how we talked about using our words to express our feelings? And sometimes if our feelings are too big, we have to use other ways to express ourselves, like drawing or music.” 

“I don't want to draw,” Tim croaks quietly, and maybe Dr Quinn is pleased that he's being communicative. He doesn't know if he wants people to be pleased with him. 

“Are you happy to talk? We can find another way for you to express yourself if you don't want that.” 

“No,” is all Tim says. 

“Then let's start with what happened at school this week.” When the silence stretches, she prompts him with, “Your Dad was telling me that you started baseball training this week.” 

Tim shakes his head once, more a sharp twitch than anything else. “I'm gonna quit.” 

“Why are you going to quit?” 

Tim shrugs again. “All the other boys know each other. I don't know anyone.” 

Dr Quinn hums contemplatively. “It can feel that way when you start at a new school. But you'll make friends soon. Maybe you can be friends with those boys?” 

Tim doesn't answer. His mind's on the way they'd all banded together once practice was over, shoving and braying as Tim had stood off to the side and yearned alone. 

“Maybe you could invite them to your birthday party?” Dr Quinn suggests. “It’s your birthday next week, isn't it? Parties are a good way for people to get to know you.” 

“I'm not having a birthday party.” 

The barest pause she takes before asking, “Why not?” tells him that she's been speaking to his father about this particular issue. 

“I don't want a birthday party,” Tim says instead of what he wants to say. The argument he'd had with his father is still raw on his frayed nerves. And he knows Dr Quinn won't make him talk about anything he doesn't want to, so he knows he's safe in his refusal. 

“Okay,” she replies easily. “Maybe you can have a regular party then, and invite them.” 

Tim frowns at his knee, his tone taking on a firmer edge this time. “I'm _ not _ having a birthday party.” 

Dr Quinn starts at that sharp comment, and Tim hunches his shoulders. He doesn't like displeasing people, but Dr Quinn's been teaching him about putting his own needs and wants above others’, so he tries to shove down the flutter of guilt. 

She waits a few minutes more before encroaching quietly, “Do you want to talk about the incident at school?” 

Tim winces, sure that she notices. It'd happened three weeks ago, and Dr Quinn had pressed him for details then too. He'd refused, and she'd said that his father had asked her to talk with him about it. So she'd made him promise that he didn't have to talk about it this week, but he had to talk about it within the next three sessions, and he could choose when. 

It's their third session, so Tim wraps his arms tighter around his knee and mutters, “What about it?” 

Dr Quinn isn't put off by his petulant tone. She's patient. It's the best and worst thing about her, Tim thinks. “Your Dad told me that you got into a fight with another boy. Can you tell me why?” 

“I started the fight,” Tim says after a moment, swallowing down the sharp pang of guilt that sears through him. 

“Why did you start the fight?” 

Because he'd called his teacher - his _ old _ teacher - a bad name. Tim wasn't familiar with the word at the time, but he could tell by the boy's derisive tone that it'd been derogatory. His Dad had sighed and explained it to him on the car ride home when the school had asked him to pick Tim up early, had told him he was suspended for the rest of the school day. 

“I was angry,” Tim says shortly. 

“Why were you angry?” 

She's not going to let him skirt around the details. Tim frowns and shifts his glower to the burgundy patterned carpet in her office. “He called Miss Elise a pedophile.” 

Dr Quinn digests that silently. “Do you know what that word means?” 

Tim nods slowly, pulls his limbs in a little closer to himself. “He shouldn't- Miss Elise wasn't a- She wasn't that.” 

“You don't think she was a pedophile?” Dr Quinn asks, her tone layered and masked. Tim hates when people use that tone around him, like some words are dangerous and saying them carefully will stop him from being hurt by them. 

Tim doesn't know his answer to that question so he huffs and says nothing. 

Dr Quinn tries another tact. “Do you understand why the other boy called her that?” Tim nods. “Why did he call her that?” 

“Because she's a bad person,” Tim mumbles, but his tone sounds unsure even to himself. 

Dr Quinn cocks her head slightly, watching him. “Why do you think she's a bad person, Tim?” 

He starts, caught off guard. “She’s not-” The words catch in his throat, so he swallows and tries again. “I don't think she's a bad person.” 

“But everyone's saying she's a bad person,” Dr Quinn prompts, and it's a sort-of question. 

“I don't know why everyone says she's a bad person,” Tim admits quietly, and can't meet her gaze. 

Dr Quinn draws in a steadying breath. Her tone is clinical, but soft. “They're probably saying that because she hurt you, Tim.” 

“She didn't though!” Tim protests, expression pinched with remorse when he turns to meet the therapist's gaze. “She didn't hurt me. I don't understand why everyone keeps saying she hurt me!” 

“Well,” Dr Quinn hedges, and Tim's aware that his chest feels tight and sore. “There are lots of different kinds of hurt. Some of them are physical, like when we skin our knee or someone pushes us. And some of them are emotional, like when someone calls you a name you don't like, or how you feel at a funeral. You remember your uncle Clark's funeral, don't you?” 

Tim nods. It'd been over a year ago now. He remembers having to dress up in his nicest shirt, and holding Barbara's hand when they'd gone up to the front to look into the open coffin. He remembers the slack pallor of his uncle's face, and how he hadn't been smiling, and it'd looked wrong on him, that numb expression. And he remembers his Dad crying without sounds, and Alfred's hand where it had squeezed his shoulders tightly. 

Dr Quinn nods with him, slowly and gently. “Well, some people think that your hurt is emotional, and they don't think Miss Elise should have hurt you that way.” 

The contradiction bites at the tip of Tim's tongue, but he doesn't voice it. Instead he says, in a small, testing voice, “Miss Elise was nice to me though. She took care of me, she said she would. And she said I could take care of her, and it was _ nice_. It felt nice. I don't understand how that can be bad. I don't understand why people are mad at her for making me feel… feel good.” 

Dr Quinn swallows, and Tim fixes his gaze on the peek of collarbone that's visible just beneath the open collar of her shirt, because it's too hard to meet her gaze right now. It feels too strong, too bruising. And it's easier to lose himself in the ghosts of old sensation, the feel of soft fingers scraping up through his hair and the flutter of her breath under his lips as he'd pressed them to her clavicle. 

“Tim,” Dr Quinn says, her tone serious but level, and the sound of it draws him back out of the memory. “I can understand why you don't think Miss Elise hurt you physically, or emotionally. But sometimes there are other kinds of hurt that people do. And they don't always seem bad at the time.” 

“Like what?” Tim mumbles, because he can sense her hesitation. 

Dr Quinn inhales once, slowly. “One kind of other hurt has to do with your dynamic, and the other kind has to do with sex.” 

Tim pauses a moment. “I don't understand” he says finally. 

“Which do you want me to explain first?” Dr Quinn asks kindly. “Dynamic or sex?” 

Hearing her say it helps it lose some of its taboo, and Tim draws in a deep breath before answering, “Sex.” 

“Well, do you know what sex is?” There's no judgement in her tone. 

“Dad talked to me about it,” Tim offers helpfully. 

“Sex is usually a good thing,” Dr Quinn assures him. “When it's between consenting, enthusiastic adults.” She pauses for Tim to process this. He thinks he gets it. “But sometimes, it can be used to hurt people. Especially if those people are unwilling, or not adults.” 

“Why does that hurt them?” Tim asks slowly, before adding, “People who aren't adults, I mean.” 

“Because when you're a child, like you are, you don't always have the experience to know whether the sex you're having is the good kind or the hurtful kind. You aren't able to consent; that means you don't have the capacity to say yes or no. And it's wrong to make people have sex without their consent. That's why it's hurtful.” 

Tim chews the inside of his cheek and thinks that through. He'd thought it had something to do with inflicting pain on someone, like physical hurt. But she hadn't hurt him. It'd hadn't been… unpleasant. Maybe that made it worse, Tim considers. 

“Do you understand?” Dr Quinn entreats, and Tim nods tightly. 

“I think so,” he says, and then, “What about dynamics?” 

“Dynamics are like…” Dr Quinn pauses on her analogy, considering. “They can be similar to sex. Do you know what a scene is?” 

Tim nods, feeling a bit more confident in his familiarity. “We've talked about them in class a bit. Scenes can be between a dom and a sub, or a dom and a dual. Or two duals. I'm a dual,” he clarifies hesitantly, feeling like he needs to make that known. 

Dr Quinn smiles easily. “In the same way as sex scenes, dynamic scenes need to be consensual and enthusiastic.” 

“And between two adults?” Tim queries, and Dr Quinn hums in contemplation. 

“Not always. Scenes can be between an adult and a child, and sometimes a child and a child. It depends on the content of the scene.” 

“What does content mean?” 

“Scenes can be used to help calm people down when they're distressed. Your Dad has probably scened with you or one of your siblings before, when they were frightened or hurt. Can you remember a time like that?” 

“My older brother Dick has scenes,” Tim offers slowly, unsure. 

“He's a sub, is he?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then he will feel the need to participate in scenes more than you will. That's a natural part of being a sub. So your Dad or Alfred will be helping him go down every other month, is that right?” 

Tim nods. 

“Have you seen them scening before?” Another nod. “And what does Dick do when he scenes with your parents?” 

“They usually talk,” Tim admits, casting his memory back to the first time he'd seen Dick kneeling on their living room rug in front of their father. His fingers had trailed across Dick's scalp as he'd murmured soft praises, and Tim had absently tried the sensation out on his own hair when he'd snuck back to his room. It hadn't evoked the same contented expression Dick usually wore when he scenes with their Dad, but Tim had put it down to needing a second participant at the time. “He says nice things about Dick to make him happy. Sometimes he pats his hair.” 

Dr Quinn hums in acknowledgement. “That's normal behaviour for a scene between an adult and a child. When an adult and an adult scene, sometimes it can be exactly the same as that, and other times it can be more intense. It depends on what the two people consent to happening and what is done in the scene.” 

Tim feels his shoulders stiffen with his uncertainty, but the question is too poignant not to ask. “And what happens when two-” _ Duals_, his mind supplies. “-people,” Tim says, “do other things in a scene? Things like… sex.” 

Dr Quinn doesn't flinch. “That depends on whether the sex and the scene are consensual, and whether the participants are adults.” 

“Okay,” Tim says, and chews that over. “What's not okay to do? When an adult and a child do a scene?” 

“Sex would not be okay,” Dr Quinn offers, but Tim nods because that was self-evident, and she focuses on the genuine question. “Anything that's too taxing or hurtful on one or both participants would not be okay to do in a scene.” 

“Like what?” 

“For example,” she says, and that masked tone is back again. Tim scowls at the carpet. “Making one participant feel like they have to 'carry’ the scene; making them feel over-responsible for their partner's experience and well-being.” 

“How do you know if you're doing… that?” Tim asks, glancing up at her through his lashes. 

Dr Quinn shifts in her seat slightly, her expression unreadable. “It's the sort of thing that you should be able to _ feel _ if it's wrong. But if you aren't sure, there are ways to check.” 

Tim straightens, giving her his full attention. The question goes without saying, and she smiles slightly. 

“It's important to ask yourself how _ you _feel during a scene. Asking yourself if you're enjoying the scene, and asking yourself if you think you're overstepping any boundaries. You need to ask yourself if you're making your scene partner uncomfortable.” 

Tim frowns. “How would I know if I'm making them uncomfortable?” 

Dr Quinn gives a breathy chuckle. “There are ways to find out. Like asking your partner if they're enjoying the scene, or if anything is overwhelming for them. Having a special word to use when you feel unsafe is also helpful.” 

Tim thinks back on his scenes. He's never used a safeword before. He'd known they existed, and that sometimes people used them. But not that they were _ supposed _ to be used. He's still not certain they're necessary. It's always been impressed upon him the importance, as the d-leaning and presumably leading partner, of being in tune with his partner's needs. Knowing instinctively what to provide. That's what a dom's job is in a scene. 

It's why he always felt like he was disappointing her. 

Tim shakes the thought loose from his head and chews his lower lip. “So I should use a safeword when I scene other people? Then I'll know when they're uncomfortable?” 

“It's one way,” Dr Quinn replies. “It's a cue that's very difficult to misconstrue. But it shouldn't be the only cue you look for when scening with a partner. If you need to rely entirely on a safeword to share a scene, you're probably not ready to scene with that person.” 

“Oh,” Tim says, and thinks on that for a while. 

“Can you begin to see why what Miss Elise did was hurtful to you?” 

Tim feels the tentative crease in his brow. “Because we didn't use a safeword?” 

Dr Quinn hums. “That's one reason. But the big reason is that she didn't ask for your consent when she scened with you, Tim. And she wasn't concerned with your well-being during the scene. Consent is very, very important. No one should have to scene if they don't explicitly say they want to scene. Did you ever tell her you wanted to scene?” 

Tim considers that question. “I didn't say no,” he hedges. 

Dr Quinn's tone isn't hard, but it is firm. “A lack of a ‘no’ is not a ‘yes’. She shouldn't have scened with you if you didn't say 'yes’.” 

“But it didn't hurt me,” Tim says in a small voice. 

“Sometimes we don't recognise hurt at first,” she responds softly. “Sometimes it takes some time and some thinking before we see that someone's actions are harmful.” 

Tim's throat feels tight, and he can feel frustrated tears beading at the corners of his eyes. “I _ have _ thought about it, and I don't think she hurt me. I don't understand why everyone thinks she did.” 

“Okay,” Dr Quinn soothes, and moves the plate of cookies to the side of the table so that there's nothing between them. She braces her forearms on her knees and brings herself down closer to Tim's height. “Let's talk about how you felt during your scenes with Miss Elise then, and how you felt after. Can you think of one memory for me?” 

Tim flexes his jaw, but provides stiffly, “One time we kissed. I didn’t have my shirt on.” 

Dr Quinn nods like that doesn't bother her, when it had bothered everyone else he's told. “And you were scening while this happened?” 

Tim swallows, unsure why he feels so pressed upon. He feels like there’s a million eyes in the room, peering in as he lays down his intimacy. “Yes. She wanted me to dom her. I was supposed to provide for her.” 

Dr Quinn’s eyes are unreadable, and Tim settles on the base of her throat, biting into his lower lip with agitated fervency. Her expression is soft though. “Who initiated the scene?” 

Tim thinks on that. “She did,” he provides reluctantly. 

“How did she do that?” 

“She… she wanted to see how tall I was.” At the first confused crease of Dr Quinn’s brow, Tim forges onwards, the words pouring out of him frantically. “I got taller, so she marked my height on the height chart on the wall. And she was really proud of me, so she asked me to stand there again.” 

“Then what happened?” 

Tim draws in a breath, because he hasn’t managed to get that many words together before without someone cutting him off. He feels sort of lightheaded from the sensation. “She wanted to see how big I’d gotten, so we took my shirt off.” 

“We?” Dr Quinn interjects, and Tim frowns, halfway to a glower. 

“I did the buttons.” 

“Did she talk to you while you were doing this?” 

“Yes. She told me how proud she was of me. Of how tall and big I’d gotten. And how happy she was for me. She told me how happy she was that I was big and strong just for her.” 

Dr Quinn hums, but Tim can’t discern anything from the sound of it. “Do you think that she was scening you then?” 

Tim hitches one shoulder up, unable to meet her gaze. “I guess.” 

“In my opinion, it sounds like she was scening you. She seemed to make you feel the need to provide for her. She was trying to please you, to make you happy. Does that sound right?” 

“I suppose.” 

The therapist shifts, hooking one leg over the opposite knee as she crosses her legs thoughtfully. “If she was scening you then, that means she should have discussed the scene with you before you started.” 

Tim doesn’t respond to that. Because she hadn’t said anything about what they were going to do, not then and not anytime that Tim can recall. She was always so visceral, so natural. He’d always felt that, even though _ she _ was the submissive and he was supposed to lead her, he’d only known what to do because of her intuition. That he’d only led because he knew where to fill the gaps she left behind in her dance. He counterweighted her pull. 

“Did she ask you if you wanted to scene with her?” 

Tim shakes his head slowly, lidded eyes on his sneakers. 

“Did she tell you she wanted to scene with you?” 

“No.” 

“Does that sound consensual to you?” 

The words are soft and barely spoken. “Not really.” 

Dr Quinn nods slowly, letting the silence stretch. “And did you feel like you could provide for her?” 

Tim's cheek feels wet, but he doesn't remember starting to cry. “No,” he croaks hollowly. 

“Tell me about that.” 

Tim swallows thickly. “I don't know if she was happy. I couldn't tell if I was doing the right thing. I just wanted to make her happy. I don't know why I couldn't-” 

His throat's too tight trying to hold back tears that he can't get any more words out. Dr Quinn doesn't smile at him or pat him patronisingly on the shoulder like so many other people had. She laces her fingers together and meets his watery gaze. 

“Do you think it was fair that she made you feel that way?” 

“I should have done better,” Tim whines, swiping at his cheek with his palm. “I should have _ been _ better!” 

“Were you trying to provide for her? To make her happy?” 

“Yes,” Tim says with earnest, because he had. He'd poured every ounce into making her happy, into pleasing her, into providing for her. There'd been nothing that could have come between them during those hours after school. He wouldn't have _ let _ anything come between them. 

“Then if you were trying your hardest, do you think she was?” 

Tim jerks. The jolt makes his teeth snap together and a sharp breath press from his lungs. It lights him up painfully, like an electric shock more than a lightning bolt. Leaves him sizzling hollowly in the aftermath. 

Dr Quinn is watching him. Isn't talking, just waiting. _ Patient. _ Leaving the space for him to think, for him to talk. 

“I… I don't know.” 

“Think about that scene you were telling me about. Do you think she was trying her hardest to make you happy in your scene together?" 

“I don't know,” Tim admits. 

“Do you think if she had talked through the scene with you before you started, that you would have been able to tell if she was trying her hardest?” 

Tim thinks on that for a long moment. “Yes,” he decides, and Dr Quinn gives him a tight smile that doesn’t quite make her eyes shine. 

“Then can you see how her performing a scene with you without discussing it with you first could be harmful to you?” 

Tim nods, gaze flicking up to study her expression. It's as neatly arranged as always, but open. Receptive. Listening. 

“So,” he starts, because Dr Quinn likes it when he can say things back to her in his own words, show that he understands the point they've reached together. “A good scene has to have consent. And to have consent you have to discuss the scene before you start?” 

Dr Quinn nods, but let's him continue. 

Tim heaves a thick breath. “So if you don't discuss the scene beforehand, it can be harmful for both people.” 

“Yes,” Dr Quinn agrees softly. 

Tim digests this with a slow nod. “Did I harm Miss Elise then?” he asks, and Dr Quinn's expression draws tight for a second before smoothing. Tim can't work out what emotion she was feeling. 

“I think Miss Elise harmed you,” she replies steadily, and it's not an answer. 

Tim holds her gaze firmly, expression stony. “I didn't discuss the scenes with her. I harmed her.” 

“Miss Elise was the adult,” Dr Quinn says sharply, something else behind that tone, and Tim's spine straightens under the force of it. She softens immediately after, adding, “If there is an adult in a scene, it is _ their _ responsibility to ensure the scene isn't harmful for them _ and _ the child. Miss Elise was responsible for you, and instead of taking care of you like she should have, she harmed you.” 

There’s a long silence between them before Tim asks, so quiet he’s not sure if Dr Quinn could even hear him. “Why would she harm me like that?” 

Dr Quinn draws in a deep breath through her nose, gaze flickering down to her lap briefly before she recaptures his attention and holds it firmly. It reminds him of his father’s stares, the ones that make the world seems to bleed away around the edges. “Some people do bad things. And sometimes they do those bad things to good people. That doesn’t make the good people bad. And it doesn’t make what happened the good person's fault.” 

“Okay,” Tim says, because he wants to believe her. 

“And sometimes when bad things happen to good people, those good people go and do bad things. Like yelling at their parents,” Dr Quinn says, pinning him with that gaze, “or punching other people.” 

Tim flinches, but Dr Quinn doesn’t drive in the point. She straightens a bit, giving him air to breathe. 

“It’s not _ good _ when those good people do those things - they’re still bad things - but we have to understand why they do them. If we understand why, then we can help them want to not do those bad things. Do you want that?” 

“Yes,” Tim croaks, and lets his leg slide back down to the carpet. His hands feel unbearable empty once he does, so he laces them in his lap. 

Dr Quinn smiles. A proper smile this time, one that makes her eyes crinkle and warmth blossom sharp in Tim’s chest. “I’m glad you do, Tim. We’ve talked about a lot of things today. I’m very proud of you for doing that with me. I know it must have been hard. Your Dad would be proud of you too.” 

Tim swallows thickly, and offers her a watery smile. His chest feels hot and tight at the same time, and he rubs absently at it, lowering his gaze to the carpet. “Can, uh, are we done talking for today?” he asks hesitantly, unsure whether he wants the answer to be a yes or a no. 

“If you’re tired, we can finish early,” Dr Quinn offers, and must sense Tim’s uncertainty, because she tilts her head slightly and asks, “Do you want to look at some photos and not talk for a bit? You can show me your portfolio. Your Dad said he took you to see the deer in Washington-Jefferson National Forest last weekend.” 

Tim perks at that. “I made a website.” 

Dr Quinn looks impressed. The real impressed, not the one adults sometimes use when he shows them things he’s done. “A website for your photos?” 

Tim nods and slides off the couch, finding his feet easily. Dr Quinn does too, leading him to her desk and shifting the mouse to disrupt the stagnant screensaver. He leaves the desk chair for her to sit in, leaning over the keyboard, and after a moment she takes it. 

“We were learning about websites in Computer Science,” Tim informs her, eyes flicking across the screen as he navigates to the browser. “They didn’t teach us much, but I wanted to learn some more, so I borrowed a book.” 

“From the library?” 

Tim hums in agreement, typing in the domain with the sharp clatter of keys in the otherwise silent room. “Babs took me. She helped me get a library card and everything.” 

The website loads with a sharp flicker, splashing colour across the screen. Dr Quinn leans forwards to inspect the images, scrolling through the mouse wheel slowly. 

“These are very good photographs, Tim,” she says softly, entranced. She pauses on one of a pair of deer grazing, studying the curve of their necks and the rustle of the grass around their prongs. Tim waits silently beside the desk, clamping down on his pride. After scrolling through another few photos, pointing out intriguing details here and there, Dr Quinn meets his gaze and asks sincerely, “Would you let me leave the website up on my computer? I would like to look at some more of your photos, if that’s alright with you, Tim?” 

Tim nods firmly, and Dr Quinn smiles. “Sure.” 

She clicks on the screensaver, pushing to her feet as she announces, “We’ve used up all the time for our session. Your Dad should be downstairs if you want to go and meet him now.” 

“Yes, please,” Tim replies. Dr Quinn waits for him to retrieve his coat by the door before pulling it open for them. 

“We don’t have a session next week. But I’ll see you after the holidays. Are you looking forward to Thanksgiving?” 

Tim feels a tentative smile curl his lips. “Yeah. I am. I’m going to show Dick how to play baseball,” he adds, because his Dad had bought him a new bat for his last birthday, so he has a spare to lend his siblings whenever he wants to teach them how to play. 

He’s feeling restless, so he takes the stairs down two at a time, pausing part-ways down to wait for Dr Quinn to catch up. Tim spots his father sitting in the empty lobby, a book in hand, and bends to wave from under the landing. He smiles and returns it, and some of the heat in Tim’s chest is soothed by the gesture.

“Mr Wayne,” Dr Quinn greets him when they reach the lobby. Tim waits patiently while his Dad folds away his book to give Dr Quinn his full attention. They talk after most of his sessions, but he doesn’t think he’s seen his therapist this cheerful before. “You have a very talented artist for a son.” 

His Dad blinks and glances down at Tim for clarification. 

“I showed her my website,” he supplies, and understanding flickers through his gaze. 

“Oh. Did you show her the photos with the deer?” 

“He did,” she confirms with soft pride, and Tim preens under it. “We did a lot of talking today. And I think we’re feeling a lot better about everything. Right, Tim?” 

“Right,” he concurs, and his father’s expression softens with relief. 

“We talked about Tim’s suspension, and why it's important that we don't do bad things to good people. Even when we’re angry. We talked about scening, and we talked about Tim’s birthday too.” 

His Dad’s voice sounds a little congested when he says, “That’s good.” Then he runs his hand back through Tim’s hair like he does with Dick, meeting his gaze to ask, “You talked about your birthday, huh?” 

Tim hums his agreement. “I still don’t want a birthday,” Tim rushes to add, and his father nods stiffly. But there’s a concession that wasn’t there before, so Tim doesn’t mind. “Or a party. But I think…” 

Dr Quinn’s watching him, silent and encouraging, so Tim sucks in a deep breath. His father’s hand slides down to massage between his shoulder blades. 

“I was thinking,” Tim hedges cautiously, glancing between them both before lowering his gaze to his shoes. “Maybe I could… scene with Dick?” 

He can tell by both their expressions when he looks up that they’re surprised. 

“I’d ask him,” Tim interjects, a flare of panic worming up his sternum. He glances at Dr Quinn for reassurance. “Because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you scene with someone - you’re supposed to ask them. So I’d discuss it with him and-” 

“Yes,” his father says, and the air gushes out of Tim’s startled lungs. His Dad nods, as if reaffirming his decision. “Yes, you should ask Dick if he wants to scene with you. I think it’s a good idea,” he adds, gaze flickering over to Dr Quinn, who smiles warmly and nods. 

“That sounds like a very good idea,” she concurs. “And I think your Dad should supervise you, to help you out if you need some guidance. Would you like that?” 

Tim thinks on what he’d do if he didn’t know what Dick wanted, like he didn’t know what Miss Elise wanted, and feels suddenly nervous. But his Dad smiles encouragingly at him, so Tim tries to return it. “Yes, please. That would be nice. Is that allowed?” 

“If it’s not, we can make an exception,” his Dad says warmly, massaging the back of his neck. It feels nice, and Tim beams up at him. “You want to head home, kiddo? We can get dessert on the way? Feed that sweet tooth of yours?” 

Tim perks immediately, his hands clenching into fists to contain the spiral of excitement that fizzles under his skin at the idea. “Yeah, yeah, let’s do that!” Tim insists, suddenly restless as he tugs his Dad towards the exit. He stumbles a few good-natured steps before wishing Dr Quinn a good evening. Tim pauses to shout, “Good night, Dr Quinn. See you next, next week!” 

She grins, waving as he wraps both hands over his Dad’s wrist and yanks. 

“Come _ on_,” he groans, and then pauses as his dad turns to escort him. He raises a brow at the sudden lack of insistence, and Tim squirms under it. “Can we, um, can we get everyone else ice cream too? I want to… I want to be able to give them something.” 

Sometimes Tim’s Dad looks at him like he understands Tim better than he understands himself. 

His Dad smiles, folding Tim in close to his side. Tim exhales roughly, sliding against his weight, safe. "Sure thing, kiddo. So proud of you." 


End file.
